Edgy Mama

Well, my pretties, I’ve off, en famille, to the New Hamster, as we call it, for a week in the wilderness, sans wireless. I do hear they have flush toilets there. And mosquitoes the size of sparrows.

Then I’ll be back for a couple of days before taking off again, for another family trip to Georgaw. It’s a bit more posh than the Hamster, so I will be connected there.

In the mean time, Ashvegas will take care of you. He’ll do his best to astound, excite, disgust, and amaze you. Give him lots of love while I’m away–it’ll keep him from getting too grumpy. Maybe.

If any of you would like to make a cameo appearance on Edgy Mama (close to 1,000 uniques per day), e-mail your posts to Ash at sweetashvegas@hotmail.com. Although I haven’t found him to be particularly bribable, he does like high-gravity beers.

Don’t get into too much trouble while the cat’s away. Remember, she has sharp claws. Well, sharpish.

You are Supergirl

Jesus loves you, and shares your hatred of homosexuals and Hilary Clinton.

Trade with Cuba is wrong because the country is Communist, but trade with China and Vietnam is vital to a spirit of international harmony.

A woman can’t be trusted with decisions about her own body, but multi-national corporations can make decisions affecting all mankind without regulation.

If condoms are kept out of schools, adolescents won’t have sex.

A good way to fight terrorism is to belittle our long-time allies, then demand their cooperation and money.

Global warming and tobacco’s link to cancer are junk science, but creationism should be taught in schools.

Government should limit itself to the powers named in the Constitution, which include banning gay marriages and censoring the Internet.

Being a drug addict is a moral failing and a crime, unless you’re a conservative radio host. Then it’s an illness and you need our prayers for your recovery.

Give support to hunters who shoot their friends and blame them for wearing orange vests similar to those worn by quail.

A President lying about an extramarital affair is an impeachable offense, but a President lying to enlist support for a war in which thousands die is solid defense policy.

Guess who believes this?

(I borrowed this from Hoss, who borrowed it from someone else!).

My wicked little fairy tale has been chosen as one of seven finalists in the Bloggging 4 Books contest on writer Joshilyn Jackson’s bloggie. Good loot this month for the winners, including copies of Joss’ new novel, Between, Georgia, which I’m sure is deliciously entertaining.

My son is deeply in love with fairy tales and nursery rhymes (part of my inspiration for the B4B story) just as I was at his age–and as I continue to be to some extent. He’ll be five years old soon and wants to have a “Jack and the Beanstalk” birthday party. In fact, he wants to plant bean stalks all around the playground equipment at our neighborhood park so that when it’s time for the party, the swings and towers will be covered in leafy green–preferably up into the clouds. I’m not sure how the Parks & Rec department will feel about us taking on a planting project in their park. Oh, and I need a handful of beans, a golden harp, a hen, a gold egg, and a cow to put on the boy’s cake. Never a dull moment in Edgy world.

My novel, Storm Mountain, published in 2001, is about to go out of print. Which is fine with me, because I need to rewrite it anyway. In my spare time.

I published the novel through a print-on-demand company called AuthorHouse. They used to be called something else, but I can’t remember what. Regardless, in one month, my thriller/horror novel will be unavailable, unless you can find a used copy.

So if you already own a copy, it might just be worth something when and if I become a famous writer. If you don’t own Storm Mountain, this may be your last chance: just $14.50 for a non-stop page-turner of a thrill ride.

Also, if you’re interested in how soaking in water can be good for you, you can read the health article I wrote this week for the Asheville Citizen-Times. It’s the first in-depth health article I’ve written, and I’m rather pleased with it. It made the 15-inch business profiles that I spit out weekly seem easy in comparison. So don’t come to expect this depth and length of reporting regularly. Maybe semi-regularly. Or maybe I actually will start writing that second novel again.

P.S. Have you noticed that Mr. Mega-chin wags said behemoth now? In my Blogads. To your left. Anyone in California know anything about this proposition?

P.P.S. In a fit of boredom two days ago, I added a neocounter (scroll down to see it). It’s telling me that since then, I’ve had over 700 visitors from 40-something countries. How cool is that?

Actually, I have not entered Blogging 4 Books more than a handful of times. Here’s my last minute, silly story about “Between.”

Between, A Fairy Tale of Nominative Derivatives

Once upon a time there was an elf named Between. He was born between the roots of an ancient oak tree reputed to have the power of communication. Between’s mother swore that she heard the tree speak to her as she lay panting between its hoary roots. She said the tree whispered, “Between, betwixt, beloved.” But she was in labor, which, as all mothers know, can be hallucinogenic. Regardless, the infant elf was christened “Between.”

Throughout his life, Between endured much taunting and teasing about his unusual moniker. One bullish, dumbish elf named Cowpat would say to Between, “Stand here.” He’d point to a spot near himself and another equally stupid elf named Hempleaf. When Between sheepishly did as he was asked, for what felt like the 800^th time, Cowpat and Hempleaf would burst into gales of laughter.

“He’s between you and me,” howled Cowpat, slapping his hefty thigh.

Between, therefore, became a rather bookish elf, who thrived on reading and wandering the forest by himself. One day, as he reclined upon one of the tree roots which had observed his birth, Between spotted a beautiful maiden wandering the wood.

Breathless with the sight of her, he dropped his book of Elfish mythology, inadvertently calling attention to himself.

“Why, hello,” said the maiden, approaching Between boldly.

“Hello,” he stuttered. Then he was silent. He felt the root beneath his bottom give him a nudge.

Shocked, he said, “Did you see that?”

“See what?”

“Ummmm, never mind,” Between replied.

“I’m Petunia.”

“Between.”

“Between what?” she asked.

He sighed. He’d hoped for a different response from the usual.

“I was born between the roots on which I sit,” he said.

Petunia’s eyes widened. “I was born in an old lady’s flower pot. Full of pink petunias.”

Between laughed. “You’re not serious, are you?”

“I most certainly am.”

“Sorry to laugh,” said Between. “What do you think is wrong with our parents?”

“They’re crazy,” said Petunia.

“They are.”

Between and Petunia smiled at each other. She leaned towards him, her pink cheeks glowing in the dim light of late afternoon. Between licked his lips nervously as she came closer.

“So, Between, sitting betwixt your natal roots, will you be my beloved?” Petunia asked.

Between started, then squinted at her suspiciously. “Do you know my mother?”

“What? Of course I don’t know your mother. What kind of question is that?” replied Petunia. “You don’t like me?”

“Well, yes, of course…I mean. You just surprised me, because…” He stopped talking and reached forward, pulling Petunia between his open legs.

“Petunia, you slut,” yelled Cowpat as he came around a tree. “What are you doing with this loser?”

Petunia gave her brother a disdainful glance, then looked back at Between: “Guess where he was born?”

I Heart Between

This summer I’ll have five anniversaries: five years married, fifteen years post-major life change, twenty years in Atlanta, thirty-five years since my dad died, and fifty years since I began time on this earth. Now those are all nifty numbers, each being divisible by five and all (and you’ll notice how I just swept right past the birthday), but I’ve been asked to write on the topic of /between/, so here goes.

Once I was between being born and losing my dad. Now I wish I’d paid more attention during those 15 years. I wish I’d done more, and been more. But I was just a kid.

Then I was between losing dad and finding myself. After college, jobs, and more college, I moved 500 miles from home and started a career. At 35, I turned over not just a new leaf, but a good sized forest. Then I was between finding myself and growing up. When I got married five years ago, I think I’d completed a sizeable chunk of the growing up.

Now I’m between fifty and…who knows what? I have hopes and dreams, and lots bigger shoes to grow into, shoes to fill with self-confidence and banishment of fear and doing the thing that I don’t believe I can do.
(Thank you, Eleanor Roosevelt!)

Aren’t we all between somewhere and someplace else? We keep reaching out, for the future, for friends and loved ones, for our dreams, for what we believe in. Between is where we spend most of our time. Between is all there is.

How can we think of in-between times as anything but a holding cell, filled with impatience, filled with wishing? It’s such a challenge to stay in the present moment. But I think I’ll start taking a few extra seconds to look around, notice more, see and hear and touch and taste and smell more. Maybe I’ll look for other patterns of five, like five bluebirds or five rose bushes. (Er…maybe not.) More opportunities may be ripe for the plucking if I just pay attention. (As a side benefit, I might remember whether I locked the door every time I leave the house.) The anniversaries might stop clamoring for attention every five years, and instead, I may start to really live while I’m between.

Over there. To the left. Do you think someone thinks I live in California? Do any of you live in California? I hope so. Cause I like the ad, and I think, if you do live in the golden state, you should vote for this initiative.

So who is that good old boy with the mega-sag chin? Do you want to buy gas from him? Actually, I think his cousin owns the gas station down the road from me, so I probably do buy gas from his kin. But, damn, you’d think with all the cashola he’s making that he could spring for a little plastic surgery. Guys do it now too. Even good old boys.

My son is totally into coloring right now. We have a box of like 400 broken crayons that he paws through joyfully for several hours a day. We’ve also discovered that there is no need to ever buy a coloring book–it’s a waste of time, money, and gasoline. Instead, we print free coloring pages off my computer–everything from holiday scenes to animals to Disney characters to nursery rhymes. Whatever we want is there for the taking. Of course, we are running through printer cartridges at an outrageous pace. But the boy is happy.

As I may have mentioned before, he’s obsessed with fairy tales: Jack and the Beanstalk, Little Red Riding Hood, Hansel and Gretel, and The Three Little Pigs are the top four stories at the moment.

Today, the boy asked if we could look for some more Little Red Riding Hood coloring pages to print off the computer. I Googled “red riding hood coloring” and found all the pages we’d already printed and he’d colored (he’s not into repeats–such a guy). Then I clicked on this. I quickly clicked close, but he’d already caught sight of it. “Mommy, I want to see that again,” he said. “That Little Red Riding Hood was not a little girl.”

No, she certainly was not.

ASHEVILLE - Famous blogger, Edgy Mama, is suffering from heat-induced stupor, causing her to ignore her fans and update her blog only sporadically.

“It’s so muggy,” Mama said. “I can’t even think, let alone consider writing something edgy.”

She noted that her kids are irritable, Enviro-spouse is getting rather fragrant, and Rocky the cat has taken over the bathtub and refuses to share.

“After writing about An Inconvenient Truth, I realize it would be hypocritical–even downright immoral–to turn on the air conditioning,” Mama said. “Although I do have three fans on high speed directed towards my office corner.”

Her non-electrical fans are saddened, although they, too, are suffering from heat stupor.

“I’ve been wanting to comment on Edgy Mama,” said Ashvegas. “But every time I lean over my keyboard, I sweat onto the ’s’ key and it ticks. I mean sticks.”

S.C. also misses reading Mama’s typically vibrant and engaging prose. But he has been unable to pick up a wireless connection from 18,000 feet, as he has decided that staying airborne may be the best defense against the heat.

“It’s summer time and the blogging is boring,” Mama said. “And I’m about to spend a week in the wilds of fricking New Hampshire, where finding wireless will be akin to sighting a live Dodo.”

As Mama wipes the sweat from between her breasts with her discarded T-shirt, she adds: “I think it’s time to invest in wind power.”